


Stones at the Stars

by anniesburg



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gladiator days, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Nightmare Intimacy, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-14 19:19:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17514410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniesburg/pseuds/anniesburg
Summary: Two gladiators spend an early morning in each other's company and very much wish they were together somewhere else, somewhere with forget-me-nots.





	Stones at the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> i've been on an arcana kick and muriel is just. the cutest. this is what he deserves.

Sometimes hands with claws reach out to him in the dark, even when his eyes are closed. Even when the fullness of the night is all around him, he’ll wake with a start. Sleep is important, necessary for survival but the remnant of a weakness long gone rears its ugly head. 

“Big guy?” He hears your voice through the heat and the dust. He’d never go to you like this, the shame is unbearable in his own chest with no one ever to know. But you always know something, he can tell by the way you look at him, the way you know to find him. 

Your eyes are watery in the slivers of moonlight. He can barely see anything else that belongs to you, the haze of exhaustion swirls around his head. But things become clear, albeit slower than he’d like. 

Muriel grunts to let you know he heart you. He sits up heavily, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. You have your hands folded in front of you, looking small and skittish. He knows you feel a hunger his rations can’t fill, you want to help him. It would be impossible to miss, your stare carries a whole conversation that he understands better than if you’d spoken. 

“You didn’t wake me.” You promise because you know he’s pushing aside guilt and trying to decide what he wants from tonight. Sleep would be good, he’d like to return to that. He’s tired, his ribs ache in a familiar way and the curved gash running from mid-abdomen to hip would be enough to make a lesser man hiss. 

“That’s good.” He sounds terse and indecisive, unsure if he wants you to go away. You’re kind enough to ask, kind enough to care. 

“Can I sit with you?” Muriel thinks for a moment before nodding. He’s seen you run, it’s why you’re alive. You’re fast with a dagger and able to sink it in and pull it out before the dead man knows he’s dying. But they do, every time. 

In sharp contrast to the vision of you that swims before his eyes, the one of you sprinting, you walk slowly towards him. He prefers this, appreciates the way you make yourself a target just to keep him comfortable. 

Muriel doesn’t want to kill, but the body count wants to rise. It wants to tear him apart from the inside, attacking the interior of his head where no amount of strength or muscle will matter. 

You’re quiet, padding over to him and kicking up little clouds of dust. You know what to do without needing to ask, you sit between his knees and pick up his hands in your own. 

To your credit, you don’t ask if it was just a bad dream. He knows the reason your up’s the very same. He doesn’t question it either for a similar reason. Talking about it opens the door for a return, he can’t see what he saw tonight again. Not the same way, at least. He won’t risk it. 

“My granny used to tell me to think of flowers,” you say in the hushed tone reserved for conversations involving him. He anticipates too much, you ease into the conversation instead of barking out what comes into your head. Muriel nods. “I tried everything else that was nice but nothing could calm me down after like a field full of flowers.” 

He doesn’t remember the last time he saw grass. It’s only sand, here, pounded by horse hooves and heavy boots. Muriel tries to picture a garden in this terrible place but the two ideas do not compute. 

“South of here, far south, there’s a field,” his voice is so low you have to strain to hear it over the sound of the wind. His hands are big and rough around yours, you find yourself tracing the shape of his knuckles with the pad of your thumb. 

“Forget-me-nots?” You ask. He nods. “Can I stay with you?” There’s a moment of apprehension as the conversation takes a shift. You lean against his knee a bit. “You can tell me about it and then maybe---” 

“You need sleep,” he tells you what you already know. He might be able to find it again, eventually. Not you. 

“I’m afraid, Muriel.” He can understand that. His eyes drop to your hands holding his, the way you’re slumped over to the right. 

“You can stay,” he says. Your sigh of relief shouldn’t move him the way it does. But it’s impossible not to care about how much comfort you find in him. He can’t even find it in himself, most days. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. Your head turns, he watches it happen in slow motion. You kiss the back of his rough hand and it’s a conscious effort not to jerk it away. He can still see the blood coating his fingers, even now that it’s been washed away. Muriel doesn’t want you to see it, too. 

He doesn’t say anything else. The cot is narrow and thin, he can feel the stones and dust dig into his back like it were hard ground as he lies down again. You follow him, taking a sliver of space on your side. After a long moment, he turns too and presses his chest to your back. This kind of proximity is new but needed, you can feel his heart against your shoulder blades. 

“Night, big guy.” you say. He makes a noise of affirmation that’s close enough. Your eyes close and you’re asleep soon.

\---

It’s not quite light out when you wake for a second time. The act isn’t as traumatizing, you’re not jerked from sleep by gory apparitions. No, your eyes open slowly and immediately you know you’re not alone again.

Muriel’s impossible to ignore, but people do out of fear. You, however, actively seek him out. You couldn’t imagine leaving him to his nightmares, even if he refuses to speak of them. 

“Hello,” you try. His breaths come noiseless but heavy at this proximity. You know he’s awake, the arm that’s around your waist retracts almost immediately. “oh, don’t.” You aren’t sure if you meant to sound so desperate, but it works. He puts his arm back around you. 

“Sleep,” he says. “you have another hour.” 

Instead, you stretch a little. Arching your back and removing any distance, you try to shake the sleep from your mind. 

“I know,” you tell him. “you get any?”

“Not much.” At least nobody can call him a liar. 

“Sorry.” Your voice holds more weight than he’s used to. 

“I know.” But he's accepted that he’ll never know why. 

It’s then that you move your lower body, squirming a little to get comfortable. Your rear presses momentarily into his hips, making Muriel shift away. It doesn’t take much to understand why, to feel exactly what’s wrong. 

He’s hard, shying away from pushing himself against you. It isn’t as if you’re unfamiliar with the sensation, and not even in the general sense, but it still leaves you sputtering. 

“Sorry,” you nearly squeak. “I’m sorry, do you want---” 

“No.” His answer is hard and gruff. It has you turning your head. 

“You didn’t let me finish,” you say. You can just barely see him squeeze his eyes shut. 

“Fine.” He’s shutting down, you’ll have to catch him off-guard if you don’t want to spend the next hour in uncomfortable silence. 

“Do you want me to help?” This is far from the first instance of intimacy, but you can still hear him sputter to the degree the situation allows. Waking anyone an hour before sunrise is asking for another kill to one’s name. Muriel has to contain himself. 

“What?” He sounds distressed, the arm around you inexplicably grips you a little tighter. You put your hand over his. 

“It’s okay, I just thought I’d ask.” You say. “It’s beyond your control.” 

“Do you want to?” Muriel sounds uncertain, but less like he wants to run. 

“Help? Yes.” You say, careful not to turn to bodily. He’s avoiding eye contact, you know how much he hates being stared at. “Do you want me to?” 

“I don’t---” his voice is closer to a soft growl, hardly outwardly aggressive. He’s embarrassed, you understand. 

“I can start,” you say. “and if you don’t like it, we’ll stop. I’ll go back to sleep.” After a moment, you see Muriel nod out of the corner of your eye. 

Saying anything else puts the situation at risk. It’s a delicate one, you have his comfort to consider. The desire to tease is so strong, so present that it’s almost difficult to subdue. But you manage, and you return to the act of slow movements in close proximity to his hips. 

Muriel grunts, keeping his arm around you. There’s a feeling like stuttering and his pelvis rocks forward against you. He freezes immediately. 

“You don’t have to worry,” you tell him. “I like it, trust me.” And he does. 

You play it by ear, moving back against him and waiting for the proper moment to turn. It comes when he lets himself sigh and groan your name into your hair. 

Moving to face him, you begin the complicated process of removing just enough of his clothes and yours. There’s nothing to preserve modesty should someone else see, being careful is a survival instinct. 

His hands are far from idle as you tug on buckles and at belts. Kilts and scraps of fabric are pushed to the side. Muriel’s fingers are rough against your chest, insistent despite his reservations. 

Your legs get tangled up in his, desperate for closeness in a way that’s different from simply sleeping together. He pushes the fabric of your shirt up and brushes his fingers over your breasts. 

The noise you make encourages him to apply a little pressure, you try very hard not to wake anyone else. But under the lightening sky, you whisper his name. 

Your hands never still, touching his chest and his thighs as you push layers of fabric and belted buckles away. While he explores you, you make the impulsive decision to stop, to enjoy this. Quick romps are too common for the way you feel about him. You drag a finger through Muriel’s hair, being careful not to tug. 

Kissing him has to be the best thing in this life. He leans in when you do, his mouth warm and soft. The shadow on his chin scratches your lips pleasantly and you find yourself smiling against him. 

Very little is said beyond names, not explicitly due to the nature of the situation but because the silence is somewhat comfortable. His hand moves down your stomach and you busy yourself with kissing his jawline. If only you could get at his neck. 

The thick chain acts like an unpleasant third party. You’ve gotten good at ignoring it, Muriel’s thankful for that. It’s heavy weight is not discussed, but merely avoided and brushed away. 

Finally, finally you make sense of his clothes. Navigating them is a challenge but your hand wraps around his cock just as Muriel begins to explore your bare hips. His large hand grips you tight, a soft hiss is the only indication of how it feels. 

You were nervous at first, the size of him implying a need that may not be filled. He was gentle in his own way, enjoying your enthusiasm despite your worry. He promised never to hurt you, that he would go as slowly as you needed. 

Half that promise holds up. Your hands move quicker now and so do his. You feel fingers at the hem of your pants and he begins a teasing search. Curling your fingers around his cock, you waist no time in coaxing small sounds of desire from him. 

There isn’t much push or pull. When you part your legs to allow him better access, he simply refuses to keep you waiting. 

He likes your noises, wants to keep them and hear them all. One day, he’s certain of this, he’ll lay you in a field of flowers and find out what each sounds like. But for now, he contents himself with the way you say his name. 

It’s a source of comfort, Muriel gives you no reason to beg for anything he’ll do to you. But you say it anyway, a sense of urgency in the break at the third syllable. He’s never been keen to share something as personal as a name but hearing it like this is a rare example of perfection. 

He knows the source of the heat between your thighs, you’ve called him ardent in his pursuit for your pleasure. It made him smile, then. He props himself up on a thick elbow as you turn onto your back, giving him more room to touch you. 

His hair falls in his eyes but he hopes you can see the small smile on his face now. 

“You’re good at this,” you say, breaking the silence. Your cheeks are warm, hips working back against his hand. His middle finger circles your clit with an accuracy that accompanies practice. 

Pain blossoms in the back of your head as you press it against the cot. It’s too thin, you’ll never understand how you’re able to find sleep without him. You give the base of his cock a squeeze to see his reaction, to remind him that you’re still thinking about how he feels. 

His eyes widen a fraction and you notice his little grin. The warmth blossoming in your stomach has very little to do with lust. 

“It’s just practice,” he finally replies. You smile back at him, more insistent with the thrust of your hips. Muriel gets the idea, he pulls his hand away and pulls down your pants to continue with fewer obstructions. 

Suddenly, concentrating becomes impossible. He sinks a thick finger inside of you, making you shudder and gasp. You turn your head towards his chest. kissing at his collarbone to busy yourself. 

Your right arm is thrown over his shoulder, keeping him close to your side while he pushes his fingers in and out of you. He’s good to his whole promise for a moment, going slow enough for you to get your bearings. 

“Kiss me,” you whisper into his chest. Muriel meets you when you lean up, taking every traitorous gasp and sharp whine into his own lungs. 

When you break the kiss, breathless and warm, he’s ready for more. Your hand moves up his shoulder, cupping his cheek and staring at him with such intensity you nearly feel him shrink. But he needs to see this. 

Muriel understands, he lets you get a long look at him before he takes another kiss. It’s shorter, rougher. It stems from somewhere deep and bruised, somewhere internal that bears the same scars as his exterior. You can’t hear him say he loves you, but you know it. 

“Now, you’re hurt,” you start when you break from him for a second time. 

“Not that hurt,” he replies. You let out a sigh as he takes his hand away. You do the same/ 

“Are you sure?” You ask. “I like when you’re on top, but---” 

“Then I’ll be on top.” He finishes. You want to remind him not to push himself, not to give too much. But you know he won’t, he’s smarter than that. He needs to live as much as anyone else and that thought gives you comfort. 

You stay on your back, pushing your pants down to your ankles and kicking them off. It’s more shed clothing than you generally prefer, but your measures are allowed to be as desperate as the times. 

“Come here,” you whisper, it’s an act of indulgence. Muriel sits up again, moving on top of you without so much as the sound of his heel scuffing the dirt. Straw pokes at your back through the cot but you can’t bring yourself to care. 

He kneels between your legs, pulled closer when they wrap around him out of habit. Muriel braces himself above you, two, strong arms on either side of your shoulders. 

You reach up, pulling him closer to you and pressing your palms to his back. You’re conscious of your nails, so careful not to cause him any more pain.

He lines himself up, easing into you with such a striking similarity to that first time. Muriel knows of the time constraint, he sees the shafts of light spilling into the room growing lighter with every minute. But he treats you with a form of reverence, taking his time. 

You have a place to pour your praise into. His shoulder’s the recipient of every kiss and hushed noise of approval. Muriel more than fills you, it’s a snug fit but even he can’t contain a throaty groan as he starts to move. 

He’s pretty heavenly. Your tight grip around him coaxes him closer, until he’s nearly lying on top of you. He’s strong, big but unable to crush you given his persistent lack of want to do so. 

At this distance, he’s close enough to kiss. You find it difficult to choose a place, instead opting to familiarize every inch of his face with the feeling of warm lips. 

Muriel’s hips stutter forward, making you exhale the breath you’d been holding in anticipation. With every thrust, you’re pushed a little up the mattress. 

You like it rough well enough, he gives it to you exactly as you’ve told him. He’s no longer worried about hurting you, not since you held his face in your hands and instructed him to be merciless. 

He wouldn’t describe himself as merciless, even now. But you’ve made your demands, Muriel’s willing to indulge them. He likes it rough, too. He likes the way your fingers press into his back without breaking skin. He likes the ache between your thighs that you describe so fondly, a reminder than pain can be lived with and wanted in some cases. It’s easy to forget that. 

You know three words as your hips rise to meet his. Please, more, his name. You catch on quick to his rhythm and the five syllables your memory retains are languidly drawn-out. He doesn’t say much, but that’s learned behaviour. 

And even though Muriel’s never confessed the details of the fantasy in the field, you think about it. You close your eyes and the dusty, sparse room is dotted with periwinkle flowers. It’s your dream you shouldn’t have to feel the cold but for a second you do. You feel that southern wind on your face and it’s such a reprieve from the oppressive heat. 

Part of you begs to open your eyes, to see him and the stars spread out over your head. Another knows that it won’t happen, it’s not real. You open them anyway, you look at Muriel’s face, watch as it alternates between the clench and relaxation that waves of pleasure bring. 

He moves one hand away from your shoulder, brings it between your legs and begins to circle your clit in a much faster motion than before. It very quickly becomes too much. 

Your vision goes a little fuzzy around the edges, you feel the strongest desire to laugh or scream as your orgasm descends like a bird of prey. You feel shaky, silent and with no indication that anything’s happening but for the clenching between your thighs. 

Muriel looks at you, his eyes open--- was he dreaming of somewhere better, too? You hadn’t even noticed he closed them. Softly, you smile. He tries to still himself now that you’re done, unsure of himself. You plaintively thrust yourself up into him, encouraging without stating that he’s allowed to keep going. 

He makes it a few thrusts more before pulling himself from you. His fingers leave your clit and he finishes on your thighs.

His body’s heavy collapse comes soon after, falling beside you with an unspoken request to return to the intimate position you fell asleep in. You’re more than happy to oblige, tucking yourself up against him and pulling your shirt down. 

You hope he’s able to get a little more sleep before the sun forces a return to brutality. You hope, but you’re never sure.


End file.
